Painting of Woe
by Miss Kisharoo
Summary: "For a moment, Harry searched for where she'd been. Then he remembered. She'd left. They'd both left, eventually. Both Ginny and… her. But the name was forbidden to slide off his sticky tongue. He doubted that he'd even be able to pronounce it now." / Round 4 Entry (Quidditch League Fanfiction Competition)


_**Quidditch League Competition - Round 4 Entry**_

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**Story Title:** Painting of Woe

**Author: **Miss Kisharoo (Kishy)

**Team: **Wigtown Wanderers

**Position: **Captain

**Fic's Word Count: **1,172 words (give or take)

**Prompt (character): **Harry Potter

**Disclaimer: **I don't own anything.

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A thin, shivering noise pierced into Harry's subconscious. Or maybe it was just thin and shivering to his own ears, to his own frazzled mind. He truthfully didn't know. He hadn't even known that he still _had_ a subconscious. He'd thought that it had been whisked away long, long ago, along with clinking glass and delves of passion. But he didn't really know. The world was devoid of all else once more, and he wanted it to stay that way.

From the deep recesses of his unawareness, Harry could still hear it, somehow, even through the splitting numbness that was reverberating throughout him. Stemming from his forehead and going down into his heart, and driving a plank through it harder and harder each time.

The numbness was unsatisfying. He wanted nothing more than to waste away in sharp jabs of agony, screaming and thrashing about, grabbing at the couch with stiffened fingers, tearing away fragment after fragment of cloth and blood-covered mounds of mediocre white fuzz. But white fuzz didn't sound right. There had been another name for it.

Whatever it was, it wasn't coming then. Maybe it would never come.

Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived. That was his name. That was his title. He remembered that much. And that light, even visible beneath his sticky, closed eyelids. That was sunlight, he was sure of it. And then there had been her… He couldn't remember what she looked like—he could only remember her lips, stained pale red by a tube of lipstick. Such a muggle thing for such an acclaimed witch.

"I'm a bad drunk," he remembered uttering to himself as he fully fell from consciousness. It was almost an apology, but it was far too late for that. His voice had been slurred then, barely even recognizable to himself, but he could clearly remember his mouth moving in time with those four words. And absently, Harry mouthed them again. He actually couldn't even be sure if his mouth _was_ moving. It felt like it was, just like it had _felt_ like everything would be alright again.

But it wasn't. It was infuriating…

…and yet what was more infuriating was the light that was penetrating the dark haze he'd been wallowing in for days now. He wanted nothing more than for it to leave with all its cheerfulness. He wanted nothing more than for it to die out in a flicker of blackness. Blackness that would comfort him, hold him close, wrap him up until he was like a baby swaddled in agony, demise, and torture.

His mouth moved in a disconcerted, mindless babble. A numb groan slid through his yellowed, tartar-ridden teeth and penetrated his chapped, bloodied lips. A hand moved, his own, but fell again just as quickly. Harry heard drums. Loud, loud drums, pounding all around him, booming like thunder. And he felt something knocking against his temple…

The effects were wearing off now. The pleasant, fiery taste of whiskey was receding, falling into the back of his mouth, dissipating altogether. Now there was only the residue of a burning vomit, sour and revolting in every way, and nothing else as parts of his body became aware once more. First his sense of taste. Then, slowly but surely, his appendages. And then his memories.

_ "Are you sure you feel alright?"_

_"Of course I do, Harry." Ginny turned that stern smile on him that said not to worry about her. But he couldn't help it. He'd never been able to help it. Yet he had learned to keep it down when she was in a mood like this, like any other husband who had a healthy but loving fear of his wife, the one who was always in charge._

A broken moan racked through his body.

He shifted his weight lethargically.

A piece of broken glass hit the hardwood.

He gave vent to a sob, pushed himself into a tilted, half-risen position, felt the pounding press through his soul again. For a moment, Harry searched for where she'd been. Then he remembered. She'd left. They'd both left, eventually. Both Ginny and… _her_. But the name was forbidden to slide off his sticky tongue. He doubted that he'd even be able to pronounce it now.

_"Harry, it's alright." Her voice, so strong, so darned logical, was now little more than a sad murmur. It broke. It bent. It shattered altogether, never even coming out from time to time. Then she'd cough and continue, "Don't do this to yourself—"_

_"Shut up."_

_Impulse. Harry had always hated that particular trait about himself. It was a wonder that this hadn't happened sooner._

_Another sip, then a tremulous gulp._

_He felt himself slipping from what little sanity he had left._

_Another bottle emptied._

_He threw it clean away._

_His sticky hands groped for hers. She gave a silent assent to his piteous callings, and slid her delicate fingers into his._

_"I told Ginny… that I'd always love her, even after she died." He'd said it unwittingly, barely knowing what was happening, barely holding on. "I need to make sure that I can keep my promise. I need…"_

Harry shook his head. It couldn't have been more than the musings of a drunken idiot, that idiot being him.

His stiff bones cracked as he stood, the pain gnawing away at them all too real. A painting of woe had been formed on the floor. Broken glasses glittered in the faint sunlight. Some of those fragments were small and circular and perfect, taking on the light without hesitation. Other fragments were dirty and blood-covered, completely imperfect just like he, himself, was. Wasted firewhiskey made pools on the ground, pools that mixed perfectly with vomit. The walls were darkened with the strong alcohol that had been thrown at them. The pictures with her, beautiful and red-haired, had been overturned. He wondered if he should overturn the pictures with Hermione in it, or the ones with Ron. Certainly he would be disappointed at what Harry had done…

_Forcefully, he sank into a kiss with Hermione. He pressed his fingers deep into her thick, graying hair. He barely breathed, but it wasn't like he needed to. He only needed to be sure. But he couldn't get enough, couldn't stop, until she pushed him away._

An anguished sob broke through him.

"Accio firewhiskey."

He could barely even open his hands to let the bottle into his grip.

_"Ginny!"_

_If he'd stopped her, if he'd told her to go see if everything was alright, then she wouldn't have died. He wouldn't have another death on his shoulders, caused by him. There was no one at fault but him. It had always been him, Harry Potter._

Another person crossed off the list.

He drank, spilling half of the firewhiskey down his chin.

Another failure.

The memories would sink away.

Another on the way.

He swayed.

Maybe it was just the firewhiskey talking.

His heart skipped a beat.

It wasn't.

And so he grinned a twisted grin and took another gulp.

**FIN.**

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_A/N: I have no idea if I'm good with Harry Potter as a character, and I have no idea if I portrayed him correctly even in his depressed state, but I certainly had fun writing this despite the fact that it was angsty and sad. Thank you so much for reading :)_


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